Roxas
by professorprowriting
Summary: We spent that night together, Roxas and I'm sure you remember because I don't think I'm the type of guy to be easily forgotten (especially by someone as easily effected by me as you are) so you should really drop the act. It doesn't matter what your friends think, right? You want me. So just come and get me.


Some people have terrible opinions, and honestly they shouldn't be counted, people with

terrible opinions are people with terrible intellect and nobody should consider someone with

terrible intellect to have _opinions _ worth considering. Some people have the _opinion _that certain

foods are considered lower than others in terms of class but maybe not in the way of

McDonald's or (god forbid) Burger King, but in a way like simpler, less extravagant. Something

that isn't au gratin or medium rare would maybe be considered lower class. Something no-fuss

and homey, yet speaks a subtle whisper of home and nostalgia. Like a turkey sandwich, and to

be frank with you, Roxas, I think I love that about you. I wasn't certain before now, but seeing

you eat that turkey sandwich in all it's humble and understated glory while you're friends sit

around you at that lunch table eating leftover _au gratin _ and _medium rare _ makes everything

crystal clear to me what type of man you really are.

I just feel slightly conflicted at the thought of you surrounding yourself with _au gratin _ and

_medium rare _types. Types surrounding themselves with piles of books that make them seem

smart with well placed bookmarks pressed between the pages but clearly no dent in the spines.

They've never read any of it and if they did it was _maybe _the first few sentences in the prologue

but that's okay, Roxas, I know you're not them. But maybe you want to be.

"Hey," I say, instantly regretting it as your friends look over at me with a condescending

smile that suggests I _must _be lost.

You look at me like I'm not supposed to be here, but you should know that I do. We've

talked about it. We talked about it at length last week. You do remember, I can see it. You have

to remember. I can tell. I won't feel pressured by the silence. I'm not a man who gives in easily

to making a fool of himself. You and your friends are setting a trap for me but I won't stumble

into it.

You give him, taking a strained breath, you're fighting the red flush of your cheeks and it's

not working (that's adorable), "Uh, can I help you?" Oh, Roxas, that's a little disappointing.

You're going to pretend you don't know me in front of all of your grossly phony friends. What are

you scared of?

"I saw you across the cafeteria and I thought I'd come over and say hi." I paused for effect. I

think you're the type to enjoy effect. "Since it's been awhile since we last saw each other." Your

creatine friends turn their little heads toward you in mild curiosity. How could you avoid seeing

such a catch for so long! That's what I hoped they were thinking, but I'm sure, given their

creative status, it's something more obnoxious and degrading, creatines love to degrade.

Finally, you open your mouth and speak after carefully formulating a response, "Oh!" You

squeak (that's adorable), "Axel...I remember now. Hi, sorry." Ah, I was worried about this. "It has

been a little while, huh, that's a bummer!" Yeah, you can pretend you don't still feel my cock

inside you when you look in my eyes. Pretending doesn't stop it from really coming to mind

though, obviously, because your face is getting redder and redder the longer I hover over your

table. Roxas, it's been a week since we found each other but you really can't forget something

like that so easily. A physical connection is one thing, but the emotional connection, oh god, we

might as well have sealed our souls together. There was so much about the campus

Remingway Artisan Furniture heir turned poli-sci major that I didn't know. There was a lot I _did _

know, because everyone knew them. Everyone knew you. But I was pleasantly surprised to find

that a great number of them were wrong. You were so much more than I thought you could be.

You thought you could just show up to the thrift store that I worked in without being noticed

by anyone at the school you went to. I hate to keep repeating myself, Roxas, but that's cute.

You stand out like a beacon of (obnoxiously) bright light in a desolate void of nothing. Because

you're _something _, Roxas and that really gets on people's nerves. You got on my nerves at first,

I'm not going to lie, but I was hungry (it was noon and I had been working my ass off since six)

and a little horny (it's not about you, trust me) and the soundtrack in the store has a 6 song limit

and it's been looping since six.

You were looking at vintage shirts in the men's section and I was looking at you looking at

vintage shirts. You were careful about making sure you've seen every shirt on the rack. I

wondered why. You were a little heir to a big fortune, weren't you? Everyone knew that about

you. Remingway Artisan Furniture was an old money established furniture company that makes

the kind of furniture people don't make anymore. Old and dark wood, stained with expensive

stain and crafted with artisan and craftsmen hands. It's nothing like IKEA furniture built to last

just a college semester, no. Remingway Artisan Furniture is built to last a lifetime, generations,

passed down after your grandma passed away. It's expensive.

You grabbed something off the rack that apparently you were happy with, and that surprised

me, I hate to be the type of guy to judge, but sometimes you (me, obviously, I'm sure you've

never been one) can't help being a judgy bitch. You walk up to the counter, and I'm standing

there, judging you like I'm sure everyone judges you, even your shitty wannabe _au gratin _and

_medium rare _"friends". You slide a shirt onto the counter and _Ironic _by Analis Morissette is

playing for the millionth time today (at least it feels like it) and you're looking directly at me and

it's weird I never noticed how blue your eyes were even though I've seen you around. I pick up

the shirt and it's a vintage mickey mouse shirt. I look at you, being a judgy bitch and you look

away, fighting a red flush on your cheeks. "You collect or something?" I ask as I look over the

shirt for the colored tag. This catches you by surprise, you were expecting me to pretend you

were a regular customer and not the most famous kid at our school.

"Or something…" You quietly slip the words out and I look at you again, the tag is red and its

fifty percent off. Maybe you're just weak to nostalgic cartoon characters or maybe its just Disney

you're nostalgic for? Maybe you're one of those weird girls on Pintrest or Poshmark that collects

Disney memorabilia like you a fucking twelve year old girl and you're in your mid-thirties with too

many kids and a husband who's never home so you replace the affection with Mickey fucking

Mouse. I hope not. My eyebrows raised naturally in response to my tangent and you saw it. "I

just think that the way they drew Mickey Mouse back in the 90's was way cuter than the way the

draw him now. I think my mom had a shirt with this on it back when I was little." Okay, that didn't

help. I mean, it helped a little but it didn't really _help _if you know what I mean. So you're buying it

for sentimental reasons, but you seem to have strong opinions about the design of Mickey

fucking Mouse and I go off the rails again. I don't have strong opinions about Mickey fucking

Mouse because I'm not someone who cares about Mickey fucking mouse and we all know

anyone who cares about Mickey fucking Mouse is someone who _really cares about Mickey _

_fucking Mouse _ and shit, that's not good. I'm sorry, Roxas, but I thought 'Great, I can tell

everyone that Remingway Artisan Furniture boy has a Mickey fucking Mouse fetish.' That was

cruel of me to think, and I didn't know you then, so I apologize. I hope you forgive me.

"Three even." I say, folding your vintage Mickey fucking Mouse shirt that (obviously) has a

superior design to any Mickey fucking Mouse from the year two thousand and on.

"Oh," You look pleasantly surprised and I suddenly feel really good about not telling you

about the red tag deal. "I thought it was six?"

"Red tag." I say and point to the big banner by the entrance that says 'RED TAGS HALF

OFF!' You smile and when you turn I smell your shampoo and it smells feminine (but not like

you're _trying _to smell like a girl, just that you don't care if you do) and I'm suddenly feeling hyper

aware of your skin.

"Wow, that's great!" Your smile is wide and genuine and I take the three dollars from your

hands and my thumb brushes against yours and I think my heart stops. I'm not sure if I like this

feeling but I kind of feel like I need it. I hand you your bag and you turn to leave and I can't

handle it.

I blurt out and catch your attention, "Hey, I'm getting off for the day in thirty. Are you

hungry?"


End file.
